Al was better than me when we started.

​

A full two years younger, and better than me. Can you imagine?

 

Long time ago now.

 

It was the night of Thanksgiving. Our first show. Our audience was a handful of dozing aunts and uncles, filled to the tonsils with red wine and tryptophan. A couple of bored younger cousins shifted around on the floor. Grandma sat in the big chair, smiling, always smiling. Dad watched from the side, those quiet eyes just blank little eggs. He was not smiling, but also not not smiling.

​

I went first, and even at twelve years old you can bet I had showmanship.

Some people are born to perform.

​

It was simple, silly stuff, but don’t all great things start from humble seeds? I remember I did this trick with a box of crayons, the kind that only holds four and has that little half-moon window at the top to let you see the colored tips. I held it up for my audience to absorb. Made a big deal of it, working the room, showing Grandma up-close, waking Uncle Jim to see.

​

Now, the trick is this: when you show the box to your audience, everything is in its right place, crayons visible, nothing fishy. But before the show … that’s when you do the magic. That’s when you cut the crayons in half. Come showtime, you’re just pinching the box to keep the crayons up and visible in the window. Then, with a wondrous incantation and a distracting flourish, you release the pinch and the half-crayons fall to the bottom, below the window, out of sight. Ta-da.

​

Applause, applause, applause. (A beautiful thing, even from your own family.)

​

After the crayons, there may have been a pick-a-card routine, maybe a trick scarf. I don’t remember. I do remember little Al standing up there after me, his eyes as droopy then as they are now. That soft chin tucked under his jaw, just like it is a couple decades later. He said no words, offered no setup. Never the showman, Al. He just held out a quarter in his small pink hand. Then he squeezed his fingers around the coin, opened them back up, and voila—the quarter was a nickel.

​

“So you lost twenty cents,” Uncle Jim laughed thickly. “Now, if you can turn a five-spot into a Benjamin, you’ll be in business.”

​

But twelve-year-old me was proud of his little brother. Impressed, even, with the smoothness of his sleight of hand. So that night, I asked him to show me his handwork. I revealed my crayon trick to him as a gesture of good faith. We could trade illusions, I thought.

​

And would you believe it? The little stinker wouldn’t tell me. He’s still like that today, too. “A magician never reveals his secrets,” he says, like it’s not the biggest cliché in the biz.

​

But that was the last time he was better than me, of course. I’m not being rude—it’s just that some have it and some don’t. Now, I’ll admit: his handwork is still great. And that’s exactly why I’ve urged him to be a carpenter or a mechanic or maybe even a surgeon, for God’s sake. Most magicians make breadcrumbs—so why choose this life unless your soul begs to perform? Unless you’re drawn to the stage, to the audiences, to the applause?

​

* * *

​

Dad, he made breadcrumbs.

​

We grew up in a dumpy three-bedroom duplex in south Seattle. Magic wasn’t what it used to be, to quote my dad, and his dad before him, and probably all the way back to when we were cavemen. Dad would open for comedians, make the rounds in local variety shows and perform weeknight sets in those windowless bars. Every summer he had a gig on a cruise ship to Cabo—that was the big one—and Al and I would go stay at Uncle Jim’s in Tacoma.

​

By the time I was 15, I had a handful of tricks I could pull off pretty flawlessly. You know, the old rope one, where you cut it in half and—bam!—it’s back together again. Or the Chinese Linking Rings. That kind of stuff. Once you get good at a few of them, it’s all about adding your pizazz. Adding awe. People don’t want science experiments. They want magic.

​

By the time I was 15, I was also taller than my friends. My shoulders had broadened nicely, too, and my jaw had become a tremendous iron horseshoe. It seemed I was made for the stage. And no matter how broke I was, I got a haircut every two weeks. I went to the tanning salons. I wore a second-hand suit and saved up to get it tailored so I looked like a man you could trust with your wonder.

​

I toured the open mic gigs, the Tuesday night all-ages talent shows at Rocko’s. I went to Pike Place and put out a thrift-store top hat for change and performed for anyone walking by. I even made some money.

​

Al, he didn’t even perform. He just practiced. In his room, door closed. I’d hear the little pops and zaps of all his paraphernalia, all for his audiences of zero. I’d hear him abbracadabbraing to that silent mirror late into the night.

​

I felt bad for him. The poor kid felt obligated to follow in my footsteps, Dad’s footsteps, Grandpa’s footsteps. But I saw no joy in those sunken eyes.

​

Carpenter’s eyes.

 

Mechanic’s eyes.

 

Surgeon’s eyes.

 

The funny thing was, Dad spent all his time training Al. Behind that closed door, too. My magic? All self-taught.

​

I didn’t mind, though. When the three of us lived together, I assumed it was simply because Al needed the help more than I did. Dad could see that I was on my way, and his time was better spent giving Al some extra pointers. It wasn’t until later that I saw the truth: my old man resented me. He did. He resented me because I had what he never did, even back then. Because I had the wow factor.

​

Because I was going places.

​

Because I was better than him.

​

* * *

​

Once, when I was 18 and about to graduate, Al and I were walking home from school. This was just after a local comedian asked if I’d be his opener on his upcoming tour. That summer, I’d be on the road. My first big-time gig.

​

“Hey, Al,” I said. It was one of those Seattle spring days that felt like real magic.

 

“You know Dad would love you even if you didn’t become an illusionist, right?”

​

“I know,” he said. He picked a dandelion puffball and examined it.

​

“I’d still think you were alright, too.” I grinned at him.

 

“I know.”

 

We walked some more. “Crazy how each of these little specks becomes its own flower,” he said, twirling the dandelion. “Then they’ll transform again, right back into puffballs like this.”

​

“You don’t seem like you love it,” I said. “Magic, that is. I just want you to be happy.”

​

“I am happy,” he said. He watched some of the little white parachutes float away from the weed’s stem, all the way until they landed scattered on the sidewalk and the grass curb strip behind us. “Besides, I’m a magician. It’s just what I am.”

​

“Okay, little brother,” I said.

​

When I got back from that first summer tour, I was no longer David Dissel. On stage at least, I was David Dazzle. The Delightful David Dazzle, as the poster said in small writing at the bottom. And from then on, people paid for my shows, too—starting at about five bucks a pop with a two-drink minimum. And up from there.

​

By the time Dad was in an old folks’ home, I was already a little famous. In the local entertainment scene, at least. I was the most well-known conjurer in the Northwest, which isn’t saying a lot, but it’s not saying nothing.

​

And the bigger I got, the bigger my shows got. The bigger my tricks got. The bigger my performances got. I brought all the pomp. All the circumstance. I was cutting women in half. I was throwing cards through glass. I was catching bullets with my teeth. There was smoke. There was fire. There were beautiful assistants in small outfits (many of whom I’d seen without said outfits, I’ll add). There was crowd participation and loud music and comedic bits and all the wow and all the wonder. Get this: I sold out the Silver Gator the first time I booked a show there. Youngest non-musician to do that.

​

The Seattle Times once said being at my show was like being at a rock concert.

​

Oh, and I looked the part, too. You can bet on that.

 

I got a set of veneers, and my pearly whites shone like stage lights all the way to the back row. I got a couple little preventative facial touch-ups. I exercised daily, and ate like a Calvin Klein model. My suits, tailored so they were practically painted on my body, sparkled and danced like fish scales. These were simply investments—and good ones, too. Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve always understood the business that way. I’ve always understood that I am my brand. People don’t come to see the ordinary. They want the extra.

​

So that’s what I became.

 

Al, he was still performing, too. But I wished he’d stop, to be honest. It broke my heart. Still does.

​

People change, but mostly just in the direction they were always going.

 

I’d go to his shows, in the dingy basement bars I’d grown out of when I was 17. He hardly said a word up there. He would just go through the motions, with all the excitement of a kitchen sponge.

​

People have been doing the same magic tricks for millennia. If you want to amaze an audience, the real trick is the presentation.

 

Al, he’d be up there levitating a couple inches like that was enough. Moving a chair like nobody’s ever done it. The biggest illusion I saw him do was turn a gross little mouse into a gross little pigeon. And he didn’t even smile when he did it.

 

Audiences these days know it’s all smoke and mirrors and trapdoors and fishing line. You’ve got to make them not care.

 

Sometimes a big-time magic fan would recognize me in the crowd. I never wanted that—to steal any thunder. But there I’d be, quietly signing autographs while poor Al guessed the card in a mildly amused participant’s hand.

​

He usually wore old jeans, faded yellow at the knees, and a gray zip-up hoodie. He looked broke as hell, which he was. But nobody wants to see broke. You can’t hold the secrets of the supernatural world and be poor at the same time.

 

His fundamentals were still solid, though, I’ll give him that. Maybe that’s what was so heartbreaking. His tricks were seamless. But, of course: good isn’t good enough.

 

Never has been, never will be.

 

One night, after one of his shows—to a small audience of folks who had likely just stumbled in for a drink—we got a late dinner.

 

We went to a diner near the stadiums, in one of those nameless parts of town. That’s where he did his shows. Nameless parts of town.

 

This was a few years after Dad died, and Al now lived in the dumpy duplex. Meanwhile, I lived in a beautiful condo overlooking Elliot Bay.

 

“Let’s do another round, hey little brother?”

 

“I should get back,” he said. His jowls looked 100 pounds each, hanging from his tired face like the cheeks of a Basset Hound.

 

“I’m buying,” I said.

 

“You don’t need to, David.”

 

“Al,” I said, “I do. I worry about you, you know?”

 

“You don’t need to do that, either.”

 

“Al,” I said, “I do.”

 

I flagged the waitress down and ordered two more beers.

 

“Let me help you with your act,” I said. “I can teach you how to make it a show.”

 

“You mean fire and loud music and pretty girls and all that?”

 

I grinned. “Is that so bad?”

 

“Maybe some people just like the magic.”

 

“People like the escapism of magic,” I said. “They just want to be entertained.”

 

“If you say so.”

 

“Like your pigeon trick,” I said. “Pigeons are just flying rats, man. I mean, how about turning that mouse into something a little snazzier? A parrot, maybe. Parrots are pretty, Al.”

 

“I don’t think magic needs to be pretty.”

 

“Sure doesn’t hurt.” I ran a hand through my hair with modelesque drama, trying to be funny.

 

We drank our beers in silence for a few minutes. It had started to rain, and you could hear the tires on wet concrete through the thin diner windows. It sounded like playing cards being ripped in two.

 

“Al,” I said, “I could use some help behind the scenes. You know, with my set list, script, choreography, all that stuff. Maybe you could help me improve the tricks I already do. You’ve always been so good with your handwork. Or if you were more interested in the business side, there’s always booking and—”

​

 

“David, David,” he said. “Thank you. Really. But I’m good.”

 

“What about a special double show,” I said. “You and me. The Dazzle Brothers.”

 

“My name’s still Dissel,” he said. “But really, I’m okay. I know you’re just trying to help. But I’m fine. And, believe it or not, I’m happy. I like my show. I like my life. I don’t need anything more. It’s okay that we have different ways of doing it. That we want different things.”

 

“Okay, little brother,” I said.

 

He scratched that weak chin of his and smiled. “But if you’re buying, I’ll have another.”

 

Later that year, I left for my first world tour.

 

* * *

 

Five years later, after that world tour and two more, after my HBO special, after that mention in GQ’s “Is Magic Back?” column (part of their “United States of Entertainment” issue), after a private legal affair with a little inebriated driving incident, after a public affair with a certain actress who had a recurring role on a certain Netflix show, after a two-month special at Planet Hollywood … after all that and more, I’m finally back in Seattle.

​

Back in this forgotten condo.

​

Now that I’m settled, and have had a much-needed good night’s sleep, I text Al to meet up. He can’t tonight, because he has a show. I tell him that’s even better. I’ll come to his show, then we can catch up after.

​

He asks that maybe I don’t come.

​

Poor little brother doesn’t want me to steal his spotlight. I say: sure, sure, hit me up after.

​

I look it up: he’s doing the Silver Gator. The Silver Gator! Has little Al finally made it to the big time? (The Gator is no arena, but it’s bigger than the dive bars where he’d been performing—and it certainly has some prestige.)

 

I’m ecstatic.

 

And, of course, I’m going. I call up the owner, and he bubbles with joy, effusive and jittery, telling me there’ll be a ticket waiting for me.

​

I pick out my most subtle suit, a slim charcoal two-button number. I pair it with a simple white button shirt and no tie. Tonight is not about me.

​

I take an Uber to the Silver Gator, and I can’t help but get the feeling that the driver is looking at me in the rearview mirror. Another fan? Perhaps. I ignore the attention. Tonight is not about me.

​

I pick up my ticket, lingering just a moment to talk to the pretty (and adorably starstruck) girl at Will Call. But I cut our chat short. Tonight is not about me.

​

Besides: it’s almost showtime. I find my seat, the dim lights blanketing me in anonymity.

 

A stand-up comic is first. He’s mediocre, as all opening stand-up comics are. The crowd is lively, though. They laugh loudly, they applaud vigorously. They are as good and ready as Al could ask for.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says the Voice of God, as I call it. The booming baritone rings throughout the room from speakers lining the ceiling. “Please give a warm welcome to Seattle’s own son, the understated prince of underground magic … Al Dissel!”

 

What an intro!

 

And then, without warning—

 

There’s Al. Just there. Now, if you’re going to do an out-of-thin-air illusion, (what we call a self-production in the biz—just some fancy mirror work), you should really use lights or smoke or something. People need to know where to look. But hey—this is his show.

​

And there he is.

​

Same scrubby jeans. Same gray hoodie. Same droopy eyes, saggy cheeks, soft chin.

 

“Thanks,” he says, all monotone. He almost sounds bored. “Uh, pretty excited about this. Usually I’m in basements, so it’s nice to be above ground.”

​

The crowd goes wild.

 

“Well, I’m talking too much,” he says.

 

The crowd laughs.

 

Then, without warming them up any more, Al walks off and returns with a small cage. Inside is a mouse. There’s no blanket on the cage, by the way. Naked, as we call it in the biz.

​

“Watch the mouse,” he says.

 

And then—

 

The mouse is a pigeon. That same old transformation illusion as before. The pigeon ruffles its feathers, the iridescence like an oil slick, and cocks its head to the side.

 

“Cool, huh?” says Al.

 

Silence.

 

And then applause. Raucous, gorgeous, heartfelt applause.

 

I clap slowly, looking around at the strange audience. No offense, but is the bar so low in this town since I left? Oh, but good for little brother! Applause is applause, and he’s getting his.

​

Then Al walks off the stage—without so much as a word.

 

An uncomfortable moment crawls by, and I fear he won’t return. That the pressure has become too much for him. Not everyone is cut out for it. Not everyone can handle the limelight.

​

But then, a sound. A screeching, scratching sound. Al steps into view, dragging a dining room table. He nods apologetically at the crowd, who erupts in … support?

​

Screeching.

​

Scratching.

 

Laughter.

 

Cheering.

 

An excruciating eternity passes as he heaves the table, pulling, then walking to the other side and pushing. Finally, the table is in the middle of the stage. He leaves and returns again, this time carrying a glass of water. He takes a sip and wipes his brow.

​

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “I need someone.” He points to a woman in the front row wearing a black dress. “Hey, can you come up here real quick? If you don’t mind. Or you next to her. Anyone, really.”

​

More laughter. (But why? Are these jokes? Do I just not get—)

​

No. It hits me. These are most certainly not jokes. Because these people aren’t laughing with Al, are they? No, they are laughing at him.

​

It’s sad enough to be a showman without any showmanship. It’s another thing entirely to be unaware of it.

​

Oh, how my heart breaks.

​

If only he’d listened to me. If only he’d become a carpenter. A mechanic. A surgeon.

​

The young woman walks up, receives an applause of her own, then—at the behest of Al—examines the table.

​

“Nothing weird, right?” asks Al. “Like, it’s a normal table, yeah?”

​

The woman giggles. She moves her hands all over it. “Seems normal to me.”

​

“Okay, thanks. Sorry for bothering you. Thanks.”

​

More laughter.

​

Then Al sets his water on the table. “Oh, uh … so, watch the water.”

​

And then—

​

The glass falls to the floor, seeming to pass directly through the thick wooden table, shattering with a satisfying crunch and sending water spilling out across the stage. A classic penetration trick, as we call it in the biz—quite simple, actually. Modern trapdoors are nearly impossible to detect.

​

If it were me, I’d make a well-timed “penetration” joke here. But Al, well … not Al.

​

“Yeah, it’s a messy one,” is all he says.

​

The crowd goes nuts. People whoop and cheer and whistle.

​

Al spends the next five minutes dragging the table off the stage again and cleaning up the glass and water with a towel. I can’t stand it. I cringe with horror. I shrink with embarrassment.

​

As the laughter rises, so do I.

​

I can’t let him do this to himself. A big brother has a responsibility to keep his little brother safe from harm.

​

I glide to the nearest door, bound down the hallway, and burst through another door into the backstage area. I reach into my pocket and pull out a small coin purse I carry wherever I go. It holds a trick quarter, a deck of cards and a tiny ninja smoke bomb. A magician should always keep a few tricks up his sleeve, so to speak. All the world’s a stage.

​

I throw down the smoke bomb, which pops loudly and releases a small but thick cloud. When the smoke clears, there I am.

​

The audience goes still.

​

“Hey, it’s David Dazzle!” someone shouts.

​

“I is him, and he is me!” I announce. The audience claps as Al looks at me, sunken eyes like golf balls.

​

“What are you doing, man?” he asks.

​

“Just go with it,” I whisper.

​

“Um, kind of doing a show here,” he says.

​

The audience roars.

​

“And I’m saving it,” I whisper. “You’re welcome.”

​

“Well, this is my brother,” Al tells the crowd. They cheer wildly. “But he was just leaving.” They erupt into laughter again.

​

“And we are the Dazzle Brothers!” I bellow, flashing my $25,000-veneer smile.

​

“My name isn’t Dazzle, for the record,” said Al. “I’m Al Dissel. That’s good enough for me.”

​

The crowd reaches a fever pitch.

​

We stand there, staring at each other.

​

“Who wants to see some magic from the Dazzle Brothers?” I yell.

​

Applause, applause, all the applause.

​

Al’s gaze takes on a fiery intensity. Maybe he’s playing along. But then, I think, maybe he isn’t. Poor Al still doesn’t get it.

​

“Let’s give them a show,” I whisper.

​

The crowd simmers to a small and uneasy murmur, watching to see what will happen, unsure of what’s real and what’s not—like any good magic show.

​

“I’m warning you, brother,” says Al. “Get off my stage.”

​

“I’m helping you, don’t you see?” I say.

​

The crowd is silent now.

​

“This is your last chance,” he says. “I mean it.”

​

He stares at me, and his eyes do something quite unsettling. They become so focused they nearly gloss over. As if he is looking through me, or maybe into me.

​

I flash a grin. “You need me, little brother.”

​

And with that, my vision disappears. Just for a second.

​

When I regain my eyesight, everything feels off. Everything is enormous.

​

As if I’m looking at the world from a foot off the ground.

​

I glance to my left and see a dressing mirror, just off stage. I see Al in the reflection.

​

And next to him: a beautiful parrot. A scarlet macaw, with beady little black eyes and the brightest yellow and blue feathers on its wings.

​

On my wings.

​

I look down and see black, reptilian feet. Talons.

​

My talons.

​

The crowd is silent enough to rupture an eardrum.

​

Then—

​

Then they explode. They jump to their feet. They scream with joy. They applaud, applaud, applaud. Their glorious song rings from every corner of the Silver Gator, vibrating through the very foundation of that old venue like never before.

​

I examine the feathers on my chest, cartoon red, then look up at Al. He looks down at me with his sunken eyes and soft chin.

​

Then, for the first time tonight, ever so slightly, he smiles.

​

I look out at the audience, every soul drinking us in.

​

Al, I think. Al, Al, Al. Now that is how you put on a show.

​

END